unscripted | dead poets society ✓

16 | rocky intersections

     PRESLEY WOKE UP with a hangover that left her cursing at herself for drinking so much. Groaning out of pain, she clutches her head in her hands as she tried her best to lift herself up in a sitting position.

     The events from last night were hazy as she tried to recollect her memories that seemed like clattered pages torn from a very big book. Deciding that it was only adding to her headache, she tries to stand up, and regrets it immediately.

     Why was alcohol created, anyway?

    The world was spinning all around her as a dull pain emitted from her head, causing her to sit back down immediately and nurse her pounding head. Although it wasn't like her migraines, it was still a headache nonetheless despite only having a dull pain that leaves her vision a little blurry.

     It was the weekend, and Presley was sure she was slowly dying until she hears a knock on the door. Judging from the peculiar tune, it had been Mr. Keating. Furrowing her eyebrows, she glances at the time and sees it was a little ways past nine. How did she sleep so much? She usually woke up around six or seven in the morning, nine was obviously an odd experience for her.

     "Presley? You up?" Mr. Keating asks from the other side of the door. "I hope you're up because Mr. Nolan asked for you to be in his office in an hour." Presley's eyes were sure to dart open as she forces herself to ignore her pounding head and trudge to the bathroom to take a shower.

     After taking a warm shower, Presley's hangover seemed to subside. Thankfully. Sighing, she closes the door behind her and makes her way towards Mr. Nolan's office. Upon arrival, she certainly didn't expect a compliment, much less an earful.

     Mr. Nolan sat in his office with a blank expression, only shooting Presley a glance upon her arrival. Well, he was never one to show much emotions other than distaste and pride. Presley noticed Mr. Nolan's mood seemed to switch between the two, and neither of those delighted her very much.

     "Ms. Ross, I called you here this morning to address a rising issue. Involving the school paper." Knitting her eyebrows in confusion, she complies to Mr. Nolan's request when he gestures for her to sit down on the chair in front of him.

     "What issue?" She had no idea what he was talking about, and she certainly had no idea as to why he was talking about it to her. "Does it involve me?" She asks.

     Mr. Nolan presses his lips into a thin line as he looked at her disapprovingly, to which Presley was even more confused. "Some hooligan wrote such an audacious article on the school paper. Demanding that Welton accept female students."

     "What does that have to do with me?" Presley asks, genuinely confused. A thousand reasons immediately clouded Presley's mind as she racks her brain for some sort of answer as to why Mr. Nolan would correlate her to that particular article. Which, as far as she's concerned, had nothing to do with her.

     "Have you been running around with the boys, Ms. Ross? I have sources saying you've been hanging out with some students often." Presley stares incredulously at Mr. Nolan, her mouth wide agape. She couldn't believe he would have the audacity to ask something like that.

     "Mr. Nolan I have preserved my dignity and will continue to." She says after a while. "And they're the ones who often approach me for advice on their lessons be it Chemistry, English, Trigonometry — its like they hired me to tutor them for free." Of course it wasn't all true. Of course Presley had to leave out little bits to protect the boys and herself.

     "Well if that's the case," Mr. Nolan proceeds puts on his specs, his eyes now on the paperwork in front of him. "You have quite the influence on the Dead Poets Society." Mr. Nolan muses, holding out the article for Presley to read.